


Aid

by stateofintegrity



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23551747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: Klinger serves as Winchester's corpsman at an aid station, but Winchester isn't the only one who ends up needing a hand.
Relationships: Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Aid

**Aid**  
  
“Great heavens, man, I can feel the tension coming off of you from here! Your muscles are going to scream come morning. Worse, if you don’t calm down, _I’m_ not going to be able to sleep.”  
  
Klinger didn’t know what to reply. He never came back to himself easily after a shelling. To make matters worse, this barrage had taken place while he acted as Winchester’s corpsman at an aid station, so the prey-bird scream of shells had been mingled with the sight of broken bodies, mouths wide to utter screams or moans he couldn’t even hear. He worried that he’d been too rough or too slow and thanked God for neither the first or the last time that he was no surgeon, only something of an impromptu aid to these men with their golden hands and shiny silver instruments.   
  
“Sorry, Major,” he said at last. “It’s a headache is all. Don’t let me keep you up.”  
  
Charles turned on his side to look at him; Klinger had never known anyone with eyes like his. He’d jokingly written to Radar that it was like something out of his comic books; when Charles took the time to look at you, he saw all the way through to the center. “I have noticed, Corporal, that you’ve a tendency to get severe headaches when it storms. When we get back to camp you should let me treat you for migraines.”   
  
The phrase _let me treat you_ made something inside Klinger weirdly fluttery, but his answer centered on another word entirely. “ _If_ we get back to camp, Major. We’re a camel spit from the front here.”   
  
“Ah, so that’s what’s got your nerves taut as wires, is it?”   
  
“Yeah, I have this strange aversion to death,” the corporal acceded. “I hate death. I even, uh, well I don’t know what I believe one hundred percent, but I pray for animals that get killed on the road. It doesn’t seem fair- they’re alive one minute and then nothing. Empty eyes. The light goes.”  
  
Charles stayed still. He’d seen that light vanish and lain awake wondering. How could the same force be so fragile in one form and endure so much in another? When it fled, where did that light go?   
  
At last, he said, “We’ve come up to aid stations and survived before, Klinger. This time shall prove the same.”  
  
“Still, it’s closer to death than I want to be. Though if I have to be,” he surprised the surgeon by admitting, “I’m glad it’s with you. You fight it.”   
  
“Thank you, Max.” It was, perhaps, the kindest thing anyone in Korea had said to him. _You fight it, too_ , he thought, _in your own peculiar way. What are your schemes and dresses and impossible shows of good humor if not ways of declaring: I’m alive_?   
  
Silence reigned for a small space of moments before Charles chided those wide eyes staring into the darkness. “You really ought to try to sleep.”   
  
“Too keyed up. Happens sometimes, seeing people cut open and bleeding and broken.”   
  
Charles wondered, then, about all the nights Klinger helped out in OR. Did he go back to his tent and sit alone, lantern burning as a ward against the dark and all he’d been forced to look upon? Winchester had never bothered to glance across the compound after surgery - he was usually too tired to even shower or change - but he knew, now, that if he had, he would have seen a single light glowing there.   
  
“Is that how you manage to expand your wardrobe? Late night sewing sessions?”   
  
The teasing tone took Klinger somewhat by surprise. Winchester usually wielded his wit either like a razor or like a shield; in either form, its deployment was solely for protective purposes and it hurt to come up against. “Sometimes. Sewing is repetitive, at least. It lets you fall into a kind of rhythm. I don’t suppose you have any socks on you that need darned?”   
  
“Regrettably, no. It’s not a chore I relish, myself, so I’d be pleased to hand them over.” In truth, Charles darned _nothing_ ; he just bought new. “What else helps, besides needlework?”  
  
Klinger scrunched his head into his shoulder, turning his eyes. “I, uh, I dunno, Major,” he mumbled, but Charles was too quick. His fingers seized on his shoulder. “Klinger, I am a _very_ unpleasant person when robbed of sleep and I will not be able to sleep with you stiff as a corpse beside me. Out with it.”   
  
The corporal wanted to lie, but there were those eyes again. He knew that if he even tried, Charles would fall on him like owl on some scurrying thing. He swallowed and spoke with lowered eyes. “Well, there’s always, you know,”  
  
Charles took pity on him. “Sex?”   
  
Klinger nodded miserably.   
  
“Toledo must be a primmer place than I have previously imagined. Honestly, man, you think you’re the only one who escapes Korea with so personalized a form of vacation? If that’s all it will require to see you to your rest, have at it.”   
  
Toledo was not prim or prudish (not even about his more outrageous outfits), so Klinger was amused. Before he could so much as crack a smile, however, his mind was abuzz with questions. Was Charles Emerson Winchester III actually saying that _he_ indulged in such an escape? It didn’t seem possible. Even harder to fathom was his casual invitation, however.   
  
“Major, you’re not saying,”  
  
“I’m a surgeon, Klinger. I’ve been up to my elbows in insides all day. Nothing you can do to yourself over there is likely to frighten me - especially if it allows us both to get some sleep!”   
  
Klinger’s face had taken on nearly a plum hue. “I can’t! Not with you right there! It wouldn’t be decent!”   
  
Klinger should have remembered that impasses were as nothing to a Winchester. “What if I help?” He stood, crossed the distance between them, and gently pushed the corporal down with one hand, while letting the other rest on his leg.   
  
_Holy Toledo_. “You can’t be serious.” The words came out as a croak.   
  
“I take my sleep very seriously.” The fingers of his right hand danced along his inner thigh. Charles seemed oblivious to this through-clothing caress, but Klinger was acutely aware of it. “So, shall I continue or leave off?”  
  
Klinger closed his eyes in defeat. “Don’t stop.”  
  
He was expertly unzipped, next. There was no wasted motion in the way Charles manipulated cloth aside to free him. _Surgeon’s hands_ , Klinger couldn’t help thinking. _And to think BJ and Hawk say he isn’t fast!  
_  
Those long fingers appeared, then, very near his face.   
  
“A little help?”  
  
It took Klinger a moment to understand what Charles was asking for; when he realized, he eagerly dampened each digit with his tongue. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought he got to Winchester a little with that; hadn’t he lingered a moment, tracing his bottom lip? Weren’t his cheeks kind of flushed? His curiosity cut out when those now-slick fingers grasped him. There was no hesitation in that touch, no working it out or feeling his way. Klinger didn’t understand how it could be possible, but, somehow, Winchester knew exactly what to do to him - and how, and how quickly - right from the start.   
  
When Klinger sank back with a low cry, the surgeon smiled. “There. That’s it.”   
  
After a time, he marked the sheen of sweat on Klinger’s skin, the way his hips rocked to answer each touch. He was close.   
  
“Open your eyes,” he coaxed, wanting to see the darkness reigning there, darkness he’d called with his touch.   
  
Klinger lifted his head to watch what was going on between his legs. His chest rose and fell almost frantically, and he keened at the sight of those fingers molded around him. “Charles...” It was all he managed before a violet light swept his vision and sparklers tangled with bursts of confetti and glitter in every nerve ending.   
  
As he returned to himself, he breathed hard, thinking, _Six hundred yards from the front. I just had the best orgasm of my life six hundred yards from the front on the concrete floor of a scrub station with a bedroll for a pillow and the smell of antiseptic in my nose_!   
  
When Charles withdrew a handkerchief to clean himself up, Klinger’s stomach clenched against a white bolt of pleasure. His headache was nowhere to be found. _I’m going to be on that cloth, in his pocket... God, I’m never going to be able to look at his hands again without getting hard_!   
  
Though still euphoric, Klinger was alert enough to note that he wasn’t the only one breathing hard. Rearranging himself as if to sleep, he stole glances at the physician. He hadn’t been wrong about that blush; it had worked its way down Winchester’s throat and stained what Klinger could see of his chest.   
  
“You still awake?” he asked awhile later.  
  
“Yes.” He turned. “The question is: why are _you_?” There was no bite in his tone, just the rolling richness that bespoke of breeding.   
  
“Well, Major, the whole point of this was to let you rest, but if you don’t mind my saying, you don’t seem all that relaxed yourself.”   
  
Charles’ eyes glinted. “Careful, Corporal. You’ll get yourself in over your head.”   
  
“God, I hope so,” came the reply. Then those cunning fingers were extended, supplicating. “A little help, Charles?”   
  
Winchester folded those offered fingers down and kissed them. The gesture was courtly, almost gallant. (And it gave him a moment to collect himself; hearing Klinger say his name left him weak.) Then his tongue flicked out and Klinger shivered.   
  
When Charles moved to unzip himself, Klinger brushed his hands aside. “Let me do it, sir.”  
  
“Privileges of rank?” Charles asked, striving to sound collected as Klinger drew him out.   
  
“One good turn, Major.”   
  
That was good enough for Charles. He forced himself to relax. His eyes closed.   
  
_You trust me_ , Klinger marveled. And then he smiled. Charles’ eyes didn’t stay closed very long; they snapped open to confirm by sight what he felt. “My god,” he said, low and shocked.   
  
Klinger wasn’t in a position to answer that utterance through speech, but he drew up to kiss around the flared hood, to tease the slit with his tongue. Winchester’s hands spasmed, looking for something to hold onto, and he actually shook his head. “You can’t,” he tried to say, but Klinger tried a new angle before he could finish speaking and he gave up with a moan.   
  
From that moment on, the well-bred surgeon and ranking soldier of their two-man team was well and truly under the power of the NCO in dress flats. Even though he tried to watch, Charles kept giving in and closing his eyes to allow himself to just feel; his eyes couldn’t make his mind believe some of the things Klinger was doing to him anyway. Worse, his mind was now coming up with things he’d like him to do, and if this kept up, he was going to start asking.   
  
Twice Klinger sped up, urging him closer and closer to the edge of a personal cliff and twice he eased up, slowed down, and let the sweat-drenched Major become aware of his cooling skin, his rapid breathing. The second time won him a frustrated sound. “Klinger, I am prepared to believe, all evidence to the contrary, that I didn’t please you at all and that you are punishing me for my lack of success.”  
  
Laughter answered him. “Just trying to get a bigger payoff in the end. You don’t ever do it to yourself that way? Keep getting close before backing off?”   
  
Winchester shook his head. His eyes, Klinger thought, were even a little shy.   
  
“Be patient for one more round. I promise it’ll be worth it.”   
  
He was right.   
  
Although there were moments in that penultimate “round” where Charles very much felt like strangling his bedmate for teasing so well, the ensuing orgasm wrung him out and left him shuddering for days; the only reason the entire camp didn’t hear him scream was that Klinger was fast enough to cover his mouth. Winchester’s eyes sought his as the tremors rocked him - beseeching, undone - and Klinger smiled his triumph as his peak went on and on.   
  
When he came back to himself, Klinger had covered him with the blankets and was toweling the dampness out of his hair in slow, gentle motions. The tenderness in his touch left Charles speechless for a long moment.   
  
“Corporal?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“I now find myself very glad that you found yourself unable to sleep.”   
  
Klinger smiled.   
  
“I also can’t help but feel that you got, ah, rather the short end of the stick in our, our, ah, arrangement.”  
  
“You’re wrong, Major.” He closed his eyes to remember the feel of those fingers brushing his lips.   
  
“Even so, I would like you to do something for me.”   
  
Klinger gave him a teasing look, clearly wondering what else he could take. “What’s that?”  
  
“The next time that the OR gets to you, that death feels too close, do call on me.“ _I think you’ll discover that the horrors of war quite disappear when you’re buried so deep inside of me that no instrument known to man can find a space between us.  
_  
Klinger agreed, returned to his bedroll, and decided that maybe being sent to the front wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to a guy...   
  
End!


End file.
